


When Harry Met Neal (Or rather, Nick Halden) (The Secret History of Neal Caffrey. Part Three)

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Secret History of Neal Caffrey [3]
Category: Kingsman (Movies), White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Backstory, Clothes Porn, Crossover, Harry Goes Looking For Trouble, M/M, Neal is Definitely the Trouble Harry Finds, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 18:13:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11926443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: As it says on the tin.  Or once upon a time, Harry Hart met Neal Caffrey.  They both were excellent liars.  It was a match made in heaven.





	When Harry Met Neal (Or rather, Nick Halden) (The Secret History of Neal Caffrey. Part Three)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storiesfortravellers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/gifts).



> Written for one of my oldest fandom friends, [](http://dariaw.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://dariaw.dreamwidth.org/)**dariaw** , (Storiesfortravellers) on the occasion of her upcoming birthday. 
> 
> Also, my first time writing Harry Hart, so be gentle. While not beta'd or Britpicked, it is based on personal knowledge of the markets on the Portobello Road and the Notting Hill environs.
> 
> See updated endnotes for some additional and possibly spoilery explanations.

**London, 2003**

Over tea, toast and the Times, Harry contemplates his options. 

Unless the world decides to go to shite again, he has an unbroken stretch of days off ahead of him - days well earned in the service of Queen and country. It's mid-March, the sun is shining like a blessing from the almighty, and springtime is beginning to make an appearance all over London. The pots that frame the doorway are filled with tulips and daffodils in full bloom and the small garden behind his mews house is a riot of color from the ancient azaleas he refuses to let the gardener trim.

It's certainly not a day to be spent indoors, contemplating his navel or worse (according to Merlin), pinning butterflies to a board.

Yes, Merlin's opinion of his hobby is well-known. _"For god's sake, Harry. Yer in the prime of yer life but for some reason, ye seem to think yer eighty, not forty. What's wrong with ye?"_

_"It's what I enjoy. I like detail work, you know that. It requires patience, precision, a steady hand. Much like assassination. Or breaking in a new sub."_

During that particular conversation, he and Merlin had been enjoying a pint at a pub halfway between Stanhope Mews and the shop - their local - and Harry had taken way too much pleasure watching his friend try not to choke on his beer.

But despite the glorious weather, despite everything that London has to offer to a gentleman of wealth and breeding, Harry feels … disinclined.

It's a sensation he's become all too familiar with. This creeping ennui after a particularly strenuous assignment is mostly a biological response to coming down after weeks of prolonged adrenaline rush, with a touch of emotional disassociation. The situation he'd just walked out of - destabilizing a particularly nasty tinpot dictator - had required more wet works than Harry prefers. But he'd gotten the job done and if the new regime is just as cruel as the old one, at least this set of sadists won't have access to weaponized anthrax.

Harry finishes his tea, tosses the paper on the table and tries to take some satisfaction in a job done and done well, even if he can't share that success with anyone except his co-workers. He doesn't mind the lack of human company but even after a decade, he sorely misses Mr. Pickle; the terrier always had a way of cheering him up. 

There's no reason why he can't get another dog, except that there's no guarantee that he'd have the time to bond and train a new pet. Not like in his proposal days, when he'd lived with the beast twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for months on end. Harry might have earned a holiday - the mandatory two-week downtime after a lengthy foreign assignment - but that's not long enough to train and bond with a puppy. Turning the little beast over to Kingsman handlers for that makes the whole effort pointless.

In a fit of self-disgust at his maudlin behavior, Harry gets up from the breakfast table and puts a more active start to his day. There's the usual sit-up and push-up routine before showering - he's in his forties now and it takes effort to maintain the body. Yes, of course there's always training and grunt work at the gym, but that's easier when there's a general level of fitness to begin with. 

After a quick shower, Harry lingers in front of his wardrobe. What he puts on will be dictated by what he does. The full Kingsman regalia, bespoke-this and bespoke-that, isn't appropriate for a day strolling through museums and shops. Not unless he wants to attract attention, and that's not on the day's agenda. No, today will be a day to underplay things. Something a little less structured than a suit, but nothing too informal - he has standards, after all. It's too early for linen (Harry shudders at the thought) but there's a nice enough tan Burberry jacket that will do over a collared shirt and dark trousers. 

Dressed, but not overdressed, Harry heads out with no particular destination in mind (he's left his Rainmaker home and hopes he doesn't regret it). It dawns on him that it's Friday and the shops on the Portobello Road will be open. While there's bound to be a crush of tourists, Harry finds himself looking forward to exploring the market. It's been an age since he's poked around the stalls and shops, and there's always a possibility of unearthing a treasure or two. 

A remote possibility, given the current fetish for everything twee and antique (not that Harry would dare slander twee and antique, considering his decor), but it's likely that everything has been picked over a million times and the good stuff sold on the internet to uneducated but self-proclaimed experts.

Still, while there's life, there's hope, and as Harry makes his way through the ever-increasing crowds making their way through Notting Hill, the slight anticipation he's been nursing builds.

Nothing catches his eye right away, perhaps because Harry's not sure what he's looking for. This certainly isn't the place for butterflies; he has no interest in acquiring someone's ancient and tattered collection - preferring to procure his specimens _in pupae_ and doing his own killing and mounting. 

But butterflies aren't the only thing Harry collects; he has a passive-aggressive interest in nineteenth century erotic implements, but the likelihood of finding an authentic Victorian-era cock ring in the Portobello markets is immeasurably slim. Probably his most mainstream interest is private and regimental-issue military honors; small items of little value other than sentiment. If pressed, he'd explain the attraction as an enjoyment of the bizarre aesthetics one finds on such pieces. But truthfully, he feels a connection between his own work as a secret soldier defending his country and those long-forgotten men who fought and died for the same thing.

There's a small shop, little more than a hole in the wall, half-way up the Road, where Harry's had a bit of luck over the years, fishing through trays of numismatic militariana and coming up with small prizes. He's pleased to see that the shop is still open, still run by the same aging gentleman in a tattered RM beret. Harry doesn't bother to catch the man's eye - he's busy with another customer. 

There's something about the customer; however, that catches Harry's attention. He's young - a rarity for the items in this shop - and almost too well-dressed. The suit isn't bespoke, but definitely designer; from the cut, Italian and expensive. And the man's accent is just a little _off_ \- it's Received Pronunciation, but via the American Midwest.

As a professional nosy bastard, Harry makes his way over to the shop counter to get a closer look at this rather unusual specimen. He's distracted from further inspection by what the shopkeeper has taken out of the display case.

A Kingsman medal.

Harry has never seen one of these in the wild. They are only given out to the surviving spouses or children of fallen knights and if Harry's memory is correct (and it usually is), there have only been a dozen men killed in action who'd left widows or offspring behind. The medal he'd presented to Lee Unwin's widow - and ultimately passed off to his son - had been a struggle to get commissioned . Chester had argued that Lee was simply a failed candidate, but the Table, in a rare instance of unanimity, had counter-voted their king, and agreed to award the honor, along with the right to a favor - something every final candidate is entitled to.

"May I?" Harry holds out his hand for the medal and the shopkeeper looks to the other customer before handing it over.

Without even turning it over, Harry's able to pinpoint the age of the piece just by the design - probably in '39 or '40. The Table had lost two knights at Dunkirk, and when Harry flips the medal over, he's proven right - the date stamped there is 1 June 1940.

"You recognize what this is?" Again, Harry's taken by the tiny flaws in the other man's pronunciation - a little bit of aspiration, a fluidity of vowels - something only someone's who's been trained to listen would hear.

"Yes - it's a rare piece." Harry knows that he's just inflated the price quite considerably. "Issued by the Kingsman Tailor shop to an employee's widow during the Second World War." He shows the date to his interlocutor. 

"Dunkirk?"

"Yes, exactly." Harry's a little impressed that this young man has such a ready knowledge of history. Particularly as an American.

"How do you know where it's from?"

Harry's not going to admit to being a Kingsman employee, but he can easily spin a good story. "My father and grandfather were clients, as I am. There used to be a small plaque in one of the fitting rooms honoring the memory of employees who dies in the War." Harry traces the reclining "K". "This is similar to the shop's logo."

"Are either of you gentlemen interested in purchasing the item?" The shop keeper holds out his hand for the medal.

Harry finally takes a good look at the man he's been talking to and he feels like he's been punched in the face. No human being is allowed to be that beautiful. But Harry is a professional and recovers quickly. "Please - you saw this first." 

The man smiles and shakes his head. "I was only interested in it for a friend who likes the truly obscure. It has an origin story and alas, my friend will have little appreciation for it now. No great tale to spin."

Harry smiles, his own interests broach on that. "A contrarian collector?"

"You might say that."

Harry turns to the shopkeeper. "How much?"

The proprietor has a sour look on his face, he'd been hoping for a bidding war. "Fifty pounds."

The price is outrageous; the medal is stamped brass without any intrinsic value outside of the story. But there's no way that Harry's going to let such a vital piece of Kingsman history go. Nor is he a moron. "Twenty-five."

"Forty."

"Thirty, and that's my final offer."

"Feh - thirty, but cash only."

Harry pays and waves off the offer of a box, but accepts a small plastic bag, instead. As he leaves the shop, he finds himself accompanied by the stranger with the face of a fucking angel.

"Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?"

Harry hears the _"or something else"_ in that question. He might definitely be interested in the something else. "May I have the pleasure of your name?"

"Nicholas Halden." He holds out his hand.

Harry takes it and offers his name, and of course not his real one. "Henry DeVere - but call me Harry."

"Then please, call me Nick." 

Harry has a feeling the name's as fake as the accent, but he's willing the play along. Conversation is difficult as they make their way through the burgeoning midday crowd which doesn't thin out until they're past Notting Hill Gate and walking towards Kensington.

"I happen to know a lovely bar not that far from here that understands how to make a proper martini. Would you like to join me?" Harry then tilts his head at the ubiquitous white and green sign. "Unless you had your heart set on Starbucks?"

"Bar, not pub?" The questioning angle of Nick's head reminds Harry of one of his grandfather's hawks, gorgeous and unquestionably deadly. Then Nick flashes a bright smile and the danger becomes just an illusion.

"It's attached to a rather exquisite boutique hotel." Harry's particularly fond of the Avalon - barely a stone's throw from Kensington Palace - and not just for the name.

Nick smiles again and Harry immediately forgets the name and the face of the last man he'd fucked into the Avalon's crisp white Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Then please, lead the way."

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> I've realized that this might be very obscure for Kingsman fans. "Nicholas Halden" is Neal Caffrey's most frequently used alias, and it's one that is, in retrospect, mostly likely to backfire on him (and in this AU, most definitely will). 
> 
> Also, by way of too much explaining, in White Collar, we never hear Neal's mother speak, we know nothing about her other than she was mostly "unavailable" when Neal was growing up, so she's fertile ground. So, in my head - for this story - she's a well-bred Englishwoman who'd emigrated in the early 1970s, and Neal learned his RP from her.
> 
> Feel free to follow me at my tumblr [Obscene Circus Ponies](http://elrhiarhodan.tumblr.com/), or on my old school (and much beloved) [Dreamwidth](http://elrhiarhodan.dreamwidth.org/) account. I'm always ready to geek out about fannish feels.


End file.
